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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a wonderful story from Olthadir. It is entitled
The Darkness in the Forest
Background music “Ashes and Dust” by Holt Ironfell

Chapter 1, “The Forest”
What I am about to write down I do so only so that others do not find themselves in my position and having seen what I have seen. There are things in this world, perhaps all worlds, that should remain secret; hidden among the mists and dust of timeless ages.

It is no secret that I would rather read a book than engage in combat. I would stay in Ardoris my entire life if it were not for my need for coin and a foolish desire for exploration. I am afraid that it was my naive curiosity that caused me to be in the state I currently am. Again, let this be a warning to those who are as curious as I.

I have traveled far and wide. I’ve seen most of Novia, not its entirety – not yet, and maybe not ever, now with the weight I carry. I have walked among the dead of Necropolis and seen the bones of a dragon chained in the Epitaph along with the large troll within. This is not a boast, I know many Outlanders who have done the same and more. Instead it is a touch of my credentials, proof that I have seen some things. But none of them prepared me for what occurred in the woods.

It began in Aerie, in Vyrin and Womby’s Bookstore. I find myself there when I wish to read books that I have not read before. They have quite the book collection and I peruse the collection when I get a chance. I was reading some of the older books that Lord Vyrin had collected from a traveller. They were quite old and I was very excited, and careful, in reading them. They spoke of ancient relics of the Obsidians, things of power and wonder that would confound the minds of their enemies.

This was an idle interest of mine. I had no interest in power. This was curiosity at its best. The tome I held spoke of Midras at its height. It described its fall as if it was recent history. There was no mention of ruins as they were still used and full of life at the time of the writing it seemed. I read of the Avatar of old and the quests the Avatar went on. I read of the Obsidian Eye and the power he wielded. I read of the horrors the Obsidian Empire created, twisting humans into new forms and meddling in death magic. I read of the armies created, not raised, used to conquer the lands of Novia.

To me, they were stories. History, yes, but stories that I could read and close the cover to and return to my life. The life where Obsidian abominations were but a periphery to me.

This all began with a journey in mid Octobre. I find it difficult now, sitting in the gardens of Ardoris to recall the details of the journey. Even the sweet scent of flowers on the wind and the comfortable, familiar atmosphere is not healing me at this point. My mind returns to the forest and the darkness within.

I know that I was in Kiln at one point, and our next destination was North. The Outlanders I was with were leading me northward and rarely used the roads. We stopped in Kiln for a time to rest and replenish out stores. The journey was not long or particularly distant. We were simply being prudent. I look now at a map of Novia, trying to bend my mind to that night. In my shaking hand, I believe we ended in Savrenoc Timberland, but my memory is not very clear of the locations, only the events. I say this not to invite you to explore, but to warn you to stay away. Savrenoc Timberland may seem safe, if it is indeed the location of that horrendous discovery, but what was discovered is not.

My friends were looking for treasure, rare resources to sell to crafters or to craft with themselves. I accompanied them as someone who cared only for a few pelts to tan and perhaps some meat to save me some coin. They allowed me to come as I told good stories.

The woods, which could be the South Majestic Forest, perhaps, were kind to us at first. My companions gathered what they wished, and I gathered what I wished as well. We were pleased. I told them of my research which contained some mysterious and powerful artefacts that the Obsidians had, and used. They bantered and laughed, spoke of how they would use such tools to thwart their enemies, and reclaim dangerous areas for Novians. I shook my head at them, and now I feel like screaming at them through time, demanding they refrain from such wishes.

The time had pressed on and the sun set. We continued to wander the forests, cutting down choice trees and collecting flora, hunting wildlife and telling ancient tales, both from our Earth and Novia. We were tracking a wolf that ran off when we heard kobold voices in a clearing ahead. My allies chose to investigate. They were not friends of kobolds. Some of my allies were miners and they despised the kobolds nearly as much as they despised us. They wanted to sneak up on them and attack. I wanted no such thing. I feel sympathy and compassion for kobolds, even more so after the events I am about to describe. I should have left. I should have turned away and hoped my companions would follow me, but I was foolishly curious.

The kobolds were a small group that were digging in a clearing that they had seemingly made. There were a handful of them, enough that my group hesitated for an all-out attack. I wonder if the attack had happened and we emerged victorious: would things have ended differently?

They were working in what looked like a hurried archaeological dig; there were tools strewn about and areas roped off to mark them suitable for digging or already dug in. There was a bespectacled kobold that was clearly leading them, holding an ancient map and tome in her claws, a bag slung across her chest that – to my trained eye – carried additional books.

I felt an immediate kinship to the leader of this group. She was curious and had an adventurous streak in her. She had found something, tracking it to this location and was bent on discovering it. My curiosity grew and I wished I could go towards them and offer my help. I should have left, though. We all should have left. A much as I wanted to see what the fruits of their labour was going to be, my very bones called out to me to run away from this place. My allies felt it too as one of them suggested, only to have their suggestion waved away with a nervous, uncertain laugh by our leader.

“This might be one of those trinkets Olthadir spoke about,” He said. He wanted to see what they would find too, but there was uncertainty in the bottom of his voice.

The bespectacled kobold yelled to her workers to continue digging, then to dig faster. Her broken and hissed English sounding extraordinarily odd in the night. She was anxious too.

I wanted to leave. I looked up to the heavens and the shattered moon. The stars themselves screamed at me to leave the clearing. Leave my friends, leave everything if you must, but get out of there! I was just about to turn and flee when one of my companions said: “Olthadir, go and talk to them.”

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with the conclusion of this great story from enderandrew, entitled
Bob the Wizard

Vol IV

The past few months have easily been the most terrifying of my life.

My waking hours are filled with dread. I never know if I am safe. I feel an invisible leash, as if the Obsidian Sorcerer I robbed can track me by it.

I’ve barely spoken to anyone more than is absolutely necessary. I don’t want to draw attention to myself in case spies report my location. I’m leery of everyone. And frankly I don’t really care much about them or how they see me now.

Before I craved their attention and my smattering of fame, even though I earned it as a charlatan. I felt it was my own form of power. But it was a pale imitation of true power. I understand that now. I’ve seen just the smallest sampling. This gem, if I can call it such, radiates far more power than I’ve ever held in my lifetime.

In truth, it speaks to me. It terrifies me to commit the words to paper. I’ve begun to question my sanity. The only reassuring thought is that a sane man wonders what is real and seeks to question it. The insane man is devout in his delusion. I know every answer lies within this gem more than the tome that describes it.

The tome speaks of transformative powers, how the Obsidians used it to shape men into fomorians to serve their will. They experimented in different ways to bend and alter men into different creatures. But it wasn’t just flesh that was shaped. These creatures were imbued with unique abilities and powers. The satyrs never sleep, for example. The Obsidians were quite careful not to give their thralls too much power. They did not want their newly created weapons to be more powerful than the arm that wielded it.

But I have no such reservations. I knew how the gem called out to me. It told me how I could use its powers, all of them. To free myself of my current predicament, I would need to do precisely what I had always dreamed of doing. I’d need to take this shard, this small fragment and consume every ounce of power it contained. I’d need to have true power within myself for the first time ever.

I would shape myself they like they shaped fomorians. I would become a true wizard like the persona I pretended to be. And when I was done, I would no longer run. I would let my pursuers know precisely where to find me. I’d do my best to lay a trap.
I assume after “The Terrifying Cluck” this isn’t what you expected of Bob the Wizard. Chapter 5 is the end of his backstory, but you may see him again in the future.

Vol V

They knew I would be in the barn at night, sleeping away from prying eyes. I had no obvious defences that would alert someone to my presence. I relied entirely on stealth, hiding as I have done this entire time I’ve been on the run.

I had no wards, no traps when they found me. I was quickly surrounded and I offered no resistance, merely an offer. I held the tome aloft in the air as they approached. I warned them if they ever wished to recover their precious shard to wait. With my death they would find nothing. But if they agreed to let me go, I would give them back both the tome and tell them where their shard was.

They seemed unconvinced and I sensed they would still attack, taking their chances that they could capture me alive and torture me for information.

I warned them of the danger I presented. I told them I had letters stored in each city I had visited. If I did not come back to claim them, they would be opened. I detailed the hidden presence of Obsidians among us. I would expose them.

They paused now as I explained that I did not know who I robbed initially, but I have a great fear and respect for their power. I was willing to hand back what was stolen because I realized I was meddling in something far greater than myself.

They did not realize that this entire time I was stalling, I was also mesmerizing them. They continued their slow advance on me, but also fell more into my grasp. What stood before them was not me, but an illusion. I stood hidden behind the Obsidian, cloaked in her shadows. He never saw my dagger slit his throat.

The satyr reacted immediately either to the gleam of my dagger or the spurt of blood. But as he struck, I was no longer there. I had teleported to just outside the barn door. I blasted him back with a fireball, and then closed the barn doors. I barred them securely as it went up in flames. I did not stay to listen to his screams.

I hear the voices so much clearer now. At first I wasn’t aware it was multiple voices, so that is why they confused me. Poor Daedalus is fractured. There were two moons, equals, opposites and star-crossed lovers. Then they became one largely in the destruction of the other. It is in this joining Daedalus should have rejoiced but she truly feels loss. The fragmented pieces are gone, lost on this earth. Part of her love has been torn away, and that is now part of her that is missing. These shards still contain a piece of her, but they have their own confused voices.

Either I have gone completely insane where it would be far easier to shed these last vestiges of sanity and stop worrying, or I alone hear her call and I alone understand. She wants us all to be together, to be as one. We don’t always have to be apart. She knows how to transform us, and transform this land. She can bend one place to another with her rifts. I have given myself fully to her lessons.

I serve her, but she also serves me well.

I am once again a traveling wizard for hire, but I no longer need tricks when her illusions are so much more powerful. I earn my coin, bide my time and await her instructions. Her voices will guide me.
I would test my new found powers on them. Would I be successful? The gem thinks I might. I’m not sure if I should trust it. But I have no better alternatives. One way or another, this waking nightmare will end soon.

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a great story from enderandrew. It is entitled
Diary of Bob the Wizard

Vol I

Reality is defined by our perception of it. Magic is the art of altering reality. If I can subvert their perception of the world, then I’m altering their reality. In that sense, I am a wizard. I just use different methods than most.

Some accuse me of chicanery and legerdemain. Technically that is true, but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing magic in my own way. The minor tasks I’m frequently employed for can usually be accomplished by mundane means. People are just too lazy or insecure to do so without the belief that they have magical assistance.

So when I tell people I’ve enabled them with ritual or some magical fetish, I am helping people. How dare they accuse me of fraud or theft? The ungrateful vulgarians!

I may not be entirely honest in all of my phrasings, but people looking for magical solutions really only want to be baffled and assuaged really.

I don’t think they realize that magic is more rare these days than past tales indicate, though those could all be falsehoods. Scholars and historians like Joorus the Scribe believe magic was fundamentally altered with The Fall and the cannibalistic consumption of a sister moon that led to Daedalus.

That is possible. But does it matter what magic might have been in the past if that magic is now unobtainable? Either we can discover new magic now, or we do our best to fake it to placate the masses in exchange for gold.

There are worse professions out there. Those that are so eager to hand over their coin for baubles and reassurances will do so for someone at some point. Why shouldn’t I then be the one to relieve them of their gold they are so wont to spend?

Vol II

There is a funny thing in pretending to be an expert in something. The more you know about a subject, the more convincing you are in pretence. You’re encouraged to study the skill you approximate. With anything else you might reach a point where it is easier to just legitimately learn something, but magic isn’t so simple. Not everyone possesses the initial spark and I doubt if it can simply be learned.

I’ve been a bit defensive in the past in this journal. I’m not sure if anyone will ever read it. I keep it private currently for obvious reasons, but perhaps someday a historian will inquire about my work. If I am slandered I hope someone will uncover this in time and allow my version of events to defend me.

I may not have any actual control over arcane arts, but I have spent considerable time studying any text I can on the subject. I figured that if what I said was consistent and accurate with what any other wizard said, then I would simply be that much more convincing.

But now it is becoming an obsession. I’m a little jealous now that there are pioneers rediscovering magic who can do some truly incredible things. I’ve been improving my illusions and tricks to mirror some of their feats. But I must admit I’m also hopeful that if I study enough I might unlock some latent talent in me.

The concept of magic has always fascinated me. I’ve always seen myself some day wielding great power.

I have a plan. To date I’ve only spoken to rubes to make money with my act. I’ve never tried to convince real practitioners of magic of my ability. I’m thinking of hosting and assembling a magical symposium in Rift’s End.

If I gather magic users, I can study them directly up close. If any of their magic appears to be driven by physical talismans and fetishes, I might be able to purloin one. It will also be a useful test to see I can fool my would-be peers.

If this is the last entry in my journal, then it will be readily apparent that this was not a good idea. But fortune favors the bold. Risk can lead to great breakthroughs.

Vol III

My last entry was somewhat prescient. It was not my last entry. But there was great payoff for my gamble, and it was somehow simultaneously a terrible idea.

My act held up well enough. It was easy enough as an organizer to constantly ask questions of others and divert away any serious attention from myself on having to demonstrate real magical ability. On the few occasions that someone asked me to demonstrate my approach or ask about my methodology, I would chuckle and deflect the question by saying “my methods are fairly well covered in my early texts. I’d be a poor host merely flaunting my own findings. I am here to be a humble host by seeing what I can learn from alternate approaches.”

Of course my early texts are intentional vagaries designed to create the appearance of competence so I can sell my “magical” services to anyone ignorant enough to hire me. No one called me out on referencing my early works. Had they cited any ambiguity, I would have claimed to have even earlier works than those that perhaps they hadn’t read.

I think most of the attendees were genuinely excited to speak with each other and learn. Magic in New Britannia had been effectively reset since The Fall four centuries prior. Either the nature of magic was truly changed on a fundamental level as many had claimed, or it was just that all prior knowledge was lost with the cataclysmic event and the chaos that followed.

In the Age of Survival, literally more pressing needs for food, shelter and security pre-empted more academic pursuits. In the Age of Warring Cities, rediscovering magic suddenly became a concern but most had little to start off with. Some of the earliest success was with Chaos magic, but was understandably unpredictable. (Note, if I am ever really forced to prove my ability, I will use the unpredictable nature of Chaos magic as a further excuse).

It was in the third age that magic really came to life again. Many of the biggest advances came from a group that history hasn’t treated too kindly, the Obsidian Cabal. I’m not one to judge morality too harshly given my career path. But Obsidian magics are so reviled by historians that I have never been able to study one of their texts.

I’ve long desired one of their tomes, but I thought it out of my reach. But then a funny thing happened.

I noticed that one of the attendees at my symposium never once took notes, and rarely spoke up. Some wizards are known for exceptional memorization techniques and not everyone cares for social niceties. But this man was not shy or obtuse. I found him often staring intently at others, but usually not the given speaker at the moment. He was sizing everyone up. He wasn’t here to learn new magical techniques because he was that confident that his own prowess and methods must already surpass all of them. Furthermore, the way he sized them all up suggested to me that he might find himself at odds with them.

I could think of only one group that would find everyone as an enemy and would be that confident in their magical knowledge. This man must be an Obsidian, as impossible as that sounded! Some had speculated that the Obsidian Cabal never truly disappeared, but merely went underground (metaphorically or literally).

I knew immediately that if there was one attendee I wanted to steal from, it was him. Since he was visiting Rift’s End and staying in temporary accommodations I knew his security would not be as good as his home lair. A dishonest life has led me to acquire several skills of questionable legality and morality. Picking his lock was not difficult.

I must have set off some magical security however as some elemental pet was instantly summoned to the room. I found myself exceptionally lucky that as it lunged forward to attack me, I was able to aim my wand right in its open mouth and fire the fireworks charge hidden within. It was stunned enough for me to finish the job with quick dagger strikes.

I scanned the room looking for my prize. I found a tome and a large gem, wrapped several times over again in cloth. I ran and have been running since.

More than a few nights since I’ve survived only because of my ability to hide. But I’ve seen some of the creatures stalking me. I know that if I was ever found, I would suffer greatly.

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a wonderful story from Themo Lock, entitled
Thug Life
Background music by Smartsound

Cavendish brushed the pine needles from his crimson pants and adjusted his hood nervously, it was time to address his men. Cavendish was the forty-second leader of the Serpent’s Spine branch of the crimson bandits, a group that had only formed two months previous. He would be lying if he were to say that he was not concerned with the average life expectancy of the groups management positions, but at least it was somewhat higher than that of the rank and file. For reasons known only to the upper echelon of the organization, his group had been charged with the task of holding the foothills and exacting a “tax” from any interlopers. The area could only be described as “hostile”, being home to countless wolves and giant bears who had their own idea on who the regions rightful owners were. And now there were the outlanders… beings of great power that would periodically pass through laying waste to the region before carrying off entire trees, piles of bandit weaponry and mountains of bloody hides. He had once seen an outlander slain by a pack of wolves only to witness the man return minutes later to resume picking at a vein of copper in the cliff side. Cavendish shuddered and pushed the memory to the back of his mind, he had business to attend to.

He pushed aside the canvas flap and stepped from his tent, confidently striding over to the nearby clearing where his men stood to attention. “Where are the others?” he asked gruffly “This meeting is not optional”. A slightly overweight bandit in shabby, torn clothing kicked at the dirt with a scuffed, unpolished boot “This is all of us sir” he mumbled. “What?” Cavendish boomed “Where is Black Greg and Olaf?”. The portly bandit winced before answering “Wolves sir… there were just so many”. Cavendish rubbed at his eye with the palm of his hand, Black Greg was his brother in law and this was not going to sit well with his sister at all. “Alright… well that is unfortunate” he stated “I am sure they did us proud and died bravely and well”. A taller bandit with hair the colour of sun dried straw spoke up this time “Not really sir, Olaf sort of panicked and tried to run but Greg used him as a human shield…” Cavendish interjected at this point “Yes well, these things happen in the heat of battle i guess “. Unperturbed, the lanky bandit continued his recollection of the fight “… and i am pretty sure Greg soiled himself”. After a brief moment of disrespectful silence, the bandit leader sighed “OK men, we work with what we have.” he declared “Caynis, what news from the upper pass?”. The portly bandit spoke up once more “Caynis is dead sir, a bear threw him off the upper pass”. At this news, Cavendish spun on the heel of his boot and marched back into his tent to compose himself.

The bandit leader breathed deeply in through his nostrils and slowly released his breath through thin, trembling lips. He was giving serious thought to the possibility that crime did not pay and wondered if his uncle would still take him on as an apprentice lamp lighter in Ardoris. Screams erupted outside, along with the chilling sound of magical fire being summoned into being. Since the bandit groups last mage had accidentally blinked herself off a cliff some days previous, this could only mean that the camp was under attack. Cavendish briefly contemplated impersonating a bedroll before drawing his short sword and launching himself out of the tent with the best battle cry he could muster, a sound that could only be described as an enthusiastic gargle.

The scene that greeted his eyes outside the tent froze the bandit leader in his tracks. A huge circle of fire was before him, within its perimeter the roasted remains of his men crackled and spat like overcooked pork. At the epicenter of the unnatural blaze stood a small girl, clad in bright pink cloth robes and playing a merry, otherworldly tune on what appeared to a home made set of bagpipes. The girl marched around in circles squeezing the instrument completely unharmed by the flames as she kicked at the lifeless bandits, presumably in search of loot. This was no mere mortal, this was an outlander and the bandit leader suddenly felt that being anywhere else but here would be desirable. Cavendish slowly began to back away but collapsed to the ground with a loud thump as his footing was compromised by a palette of week old cabbages, the bandit groups sole source of nourishment. “Don’t make eye contact” he yelled internally “don’t make.. OH SWEET LORD I MADE EYE CONTACT!”. The girl calmly raised a tiny, well manicured hand and smiled sweetly. The last thing Cavendish witnessed in his brief role as a bandit lord was a burst of flames erupting from the bagpipes and a white hot ball of fire hurtling in his direction.

Some days later, Helgrid the bandit stood at the edge of a circle of charred earth and eyeballed a group of fresh recruits. She was the forty-third leader of the Serpent’s Spine branch of the crimson bandits, a group that had only formed two months previous. Her outlook was positive and her dagger was sharp, she had big plans for this company of bandits and there was work to be done.